The Grim and Beautiful Art
by Joodiff
Summary: It's been years since she's seen him, but strangely he doesn't seem to have changed very much. B/G, significantly post-"Waterloo". Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

**A/N:** _Er... Kleenex warning required, maybe._

* * *

**The Grim and Beautiful Art**

by Joodiff

* * *

"I knew you'd come," she says, her voice not much more than a hoarse whisper. Her mouth is always dry nowadays, her throat always slightly sore, but tonight she barely notices. Her attention is all on the tall, broad-shouldered figure pacing across the room towards her. He doesn't seem to have changed at all, not one little bit in all the years since she last saw him. The room is only dimly-lit, of course, and her eyesight is not what it once was, so perhaps it's understandable that her mind takes the path of least resistance and focuses on what it knows, memory substituting for the visual acuity she's lost. She smiles as he draws closer, a tired and rueful smile. "Hello, Boyd."

Maybe she doesn't see the details as well as she used to, but it seems his eyes are every bit as impenetrably dark as she remembers; his voice is certainly just as deep and well-modulated. "Grace."

Laconic as ever. Never waste time with a whole sentence when a single word will do. It's just the way he is, the way he's always been – gruff but well-meaning. She tries to sit up a little straighter against the sagging pile of pillows, pride forcing her to risk expending what little strength and energy she still has. There was another time like this one, years ago. Another room, another hospital bed. Another time when he gazed at her in stoic silence as he struggled to hide every trace of his worry and confusion. So long ago and yet it could have been yesterday, Grace can picture it all so clearly.

"What time is it?" she asks him. In the low lighting the clock on the far wall is just a vague blur and it suddenly seems important to know.

"A little after ten."

She wonders why they admitted him to the ward at such a late hour, but deep down she knows. In places like this there are some privileges that are only afforded to the dying.

"Sit down," she says. Didn't she tell him that once before? That or something very like it. Grace watches as he moves to pull up a chair, wishes she could see him just a little better. Stronger light will only hurt her eyes, however, and it won't help much anyway. Macular degeneration. Unfortunate penalty of old age – one she thought she'd escaped until she realised how difficult it was becoming to read even the largest, boldest print. It doesn't matter anymore, anyway. There aren't many more days and nights left in which to miss feeling the comforting weight of a book in her hands. Not much left she wishes she _could_ read, either.

Boyd takes her hand. It's unexpected. Not the gesture so much as the deep chill of his skin. He's brought the cold November night into the hospital with him. Her fingers tighten automatically around his. She knows he will feel the fear she obstinately keeps hidden from everyone else. It's hard to look into the void when there's no chance of reprieve. Age doesn't make it any easier. Perhaps the grip on life isn't quite so tenacious, but the will to survive endures far longer than the physical ability to hold onto the last threads.

"I'm scared," she admits, her voice barely audible even to herself.

"I know." His voice is gentle. Soothing.

"I told them you'd come." It's a small triumph. One that means a lot. "They didn't believe it."

"But you did."

"Yes." Somehow she never doubted it, not once.

"That's why I'm here."

She doesn't ask him how he knew where to find her. Doesn't ask him why it's taken him so long to find his way to the bland room that's become her final prison. The details don't matter, not in the short time they have left. She thinks he might be smiling at her, but she's not sure. The way the shadows are falling his features are too indistinct. If he is smiling, Grace knows which one it will be. The gentle smile. The one she fell in love with the very first time she saw it. She swallows, not simply because of all the difficult, different emotions swelling inside her. There's not much moisture in her mouth, in her throat. Hasn't been for days. Weeks, maybe. There are still things that need to be said. Concluding words. Words for them both; a peaceful epilogue to all the stormy chapters.

"I loved you," she whispers.

"I know," Boyd says again, and his voice is perfectly steady.

"When you left me – "

"Don't," he interrupts, but quietly. "There's nothing you can say that I don't already know, Grace."

It hurts – in every possible way – but she allows a faint smile. "You never were one for words, were you, Boyd?"

"You had enough for both of us."

She wonders if he ever really understood how much he meant to her. _Still_ means to her, even after all the years of hurt and regret. Wonders if she needs to tell him he was – is – the last great love of her life. Again, her fingers tighten on his. It amazes her how cold his hand still is. The pundits say there will be heavy snow before Christmas this year, that even mighty London will be brought to its knees by the bitter arctic chill that's coming. She's glad she won't have to endure it. There were enough bleak winters in her youth, in the hard years that followed the war, the ones that only seemed to grudgingly come to an end as the world staggered blinking into the strange new world of the 'sixties.

He saw those days, too. It's always been a part of the complex connection between them. _The Beatles_ on the roof in Savile Row; Jimi Hendrix dead in Notting Hill. A different world. A different lifetime.

"Will it hurt?" A plea more than a question.

Boyd's reply is gentle. "No."

She swallows. "Will you stay with me?"

"I never left you, Grace."

Perhaps he didn't. Not in the way that matters most. She sighs and closes her eyes. Despite the background noise of the ward beyond her little side room everything suddenly seems very quiet and peaceful.

"It's not time yet," he rebukes her, a touch of pained amusement in his voice. "Open your eyes, Grace."

She does. Nothing's changed. The room is still dim, he is still a shadowy figure sitting next to the bed. "I'm tired."

"Yeah, well I'm not here to sit and watch you snooze."

Grace doesn't waste the opportunity to ask the emotive question that's smouldering inside her. "Why are you here?"

"You know why."

She doesn't pursue it. Waste of time and energy. Both of which are far too precious to throw away pointlessly. She traces her thumb over the ridges of his knuckles. "I don't want any flowers at the funeral, Boyd. And if anyone decides it's a good idea to play _Amazing Grace_ I swear I'll bloody haunt them."

Boyd chuckles, but it's a sound that speaks only of still-tender scars and of wounds that will never heal. He lifts her hand and she feels the slightest brush of his lips against her palm. Cool and soft, a lost lover's caress. She can feel the soft bristle of his beard, and that more than the once-familiar touch of his lips momentarily casts her back years in time. Tangled cotton sheets on summer Sunday mornings and the soft vibration through his chest as he purrs under her touch. Eyes that look molten in the sunlight and warm skin silk-smooth against her naked flesh. The inevitable sharp prickle of tears belongs to the present, though. The melancholy tears of the past dried a long time ago.

"I don't want to die," she says, her voice still hoarse but suddenly much stronger. "Boyd, I don't want to die."

He seems to sigh. "No-one ever does. Sometimes they might think they do, but when the last moment comes…"

"Save me." A visceral plea wrung straight from the core of her.

Boyd shakes his head. "I can't, Grace. Not this time."

She doesn't need him to tell her he would if he could. She already knows it. Has always known it. Sheer bloody-minded stubbornness makes her say, "Then lie to me. Please. Tell me this is just a bad dream and I'll wake up tomorrow in your arms."

"No."

"I hate you," she spits, and it's the bitter truth. Hates him, loves him. It's all the same when there's nothing left but the oncoming blackness of the longest, darkest night.

Once again, his answer is a simple, "I know."

"I'm thirsty," she says when she's able to speak past the deadly constriction in her throat. "Can… I have some water?"

"Jug's empty. I'll go and find a nurse."

"No. Don't leave me, Boyd. Please don't leave me."

The ticking of the clock on the wall seems to be getting louder. Just her imagination. Symbolic. The grim and beautiful art of dying distilled down to the banality of a small side room in a big London hospital. Highgate Cemetery in all its gloomy glory. The raven's glossy feathers and goading cry of _"Nevermore…"_. Black horses and the dark suits and top hats of undertakers. A gothic circus of gloomy images bombarding her, one after the other.

"I wish I'd married you," she says. It might be her very last unspoken regret, now given voice to. "All those years ago when you asked me to."

"Why didn't you?" No anger, no resentment, just something like curiosity.

"It wasn't the right time."

Boyd's quiet snort is telling. "Wrong answer, Grace. Try again."

He always did have an uncanny ability to know when she was lying to him. Or at least being deliberately evasive. Something inside Grace warms a little. She looks at him. Really looks at him, forcing herself to focus as sharply as she can. The eyes regarding her are deep and hypnotic, but they are kind. Gentle. She laughs, a tiny, shaky sound. "I've missed you so much, Boyd. Every single bloody day."

His reply is lost forever as another figure appears in the room. Smaller, slighter. Uniformed. A bright female voice declares, "Just need to do your obs, Grace."

"I'll wait outside," Boyd says promptly and he's on his feet and moving away before Grace can object.

She sighs as the nurse approaches. She's had enough of being prodded and poked, enough of the ridiculous futility of it all. She's not ill, she feels like screaming, she's just old. Old and tired, and close to the moment when –

"Your husband?" the nurse asks, deftly wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Grace's upper arm.

If she had the strength she'd laugh at the irony. "Almost. Once upon a time."

"Came to your senses just in time, did you?" Innocuous banter.

"Something like that."

_Nothing_ like that. She can still picture the wounded, bemused look on his face when she calmly shook her head in answer to his bold question. Poor Boyd. He'd been so sure, so very sure that they'd end their days as husband and wife, happily confounding every last sceptic amongst their joint circle of friends and former colleagues. She still doesn't really know why it had seemed so important then not to allow herself to be carried away by a fantasy, a whim. Perhaps things would have been different if –

"All done," the nurse says, stepping away.

"I'm still alive, then?"

A chuckle. "Oh, you'll outlive us all, Gracie."

_Gracie_. It scrapes across her nerves. As does the facile lie. It shouldn't be like this. She shouldn't be dying alone in a hospital bed, a forgotten old woman patronised by medical stuff young enough to be her grandchildren, if not her great-grandchildren. What do they know of her? Of who she is, who she _was_? Of the life she's lived?

She's not alone. Boyd is back at her side and looking down at her. Even though her vision is poor, she can see he looks oddly calm. Calm and compassionate. His expression tells her everything she needs to know and much more. The last ragged edges of stubborn hope dwindle away.

"I'm cold," she says, and in response he sits down on the edge of the bed, his weight bearing her towards him as the mattress dips beneath him. If he says anything, she doesn't hear it. She can feel his arms closing around her, though. Still strong, still protective. It might be the ticking of the clock she can hear or it might be his heart beating, Grace simply can't tell as she relaxes into him. She thinks she should be fighting, but there's nothing to fight against. No terrifying spectre inexorably rising to extinguish the last flickering flame of life, no sign of the much-feared ferryman. It's just the two of them and the seconds loudly ticking away.

"Go to sleep," Boyd says, gentler than she's ever known him to be. "Go to sleep, Grace. I won't leave you."

"Never again…?" she asks him drowsily.

"Never again."

She tightens her weakening grip on his forearm for a moment. "I loved you."

"I know."

Warmth. Serenity. Like falling into a stupor on a warm summer evening. Outside the cold rain is beating a strong tempo against the window. She doesn't notice.

"Grace?" His voice is soft.

She manages to open her eyes. "What…?"

"I loved you too."

"I know."

"I still do," he says, but his voice is fading as if he's getting further and further away from her.

It's all right. Everything's all right. She's warm and sleepy and she feels safe in his arms. When she wakes up again she thinks she'll feel a little stronger. Strong enough to see another sunset, maybe. They'll talk when she wakes up. Not much left to say, but she can always find a few more words. _Always_.

If the clock's still ticking she can't hear it. If Boyd's heart is still beating she can't hear that, either.

It takes a few more minutes, but it's a gentle passing. An easy passing. But Grace doesn't know that.

-oOo-

"The rest of your mother's things," the nurse says, holding out a small white plastic bag. The name of the hospital is printed on the side in large black letters. "Once again, we're all terribly sorry for your loss. She was a lovely woman."

The daughter accepts the bag without a word. It's the bespectacled son who says, "I just can't believe we didn't get here in time…"

He sounds almost as numb as he looks. The nurse is sympathetic. She says, "I'm sure you did your absolute best, Mr Foley. Your mother would have known that."

He swallows hard. "It was… peaceful, though?"

"Very. She just went quietly to sleep."

"Were you with her?"

"I saw her earlier in the evening, but no, I'm afraid not. Mr Boyd said she just slipped away."

Blue eyes narrow in evident surprise. "Mr Boyd…?"

She nods. "Yes. He was with her when..."

"_Boyd_…?"

"Yes," the nurse repeats, bemused. "Older gentleman. Tall, bearded. Distinguished-looking. Peter, I think he said his first name was."

The son shakes his head. He looks very pale. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. That's simply not possible."

"I spoke to him several times last night," she insists, polite but firm. "He was very concerned about your mother."

"Listen, I don't know who you spoke to, but it certainly wasn't Peter Boyd," the son says. He sounds angry and he all-but snatches the small plastic bag from his still-silent sister.

Taken aback, the nurse recoils from his sudden ire. "Well, that's who he said he was… and I distinctly heard your mother address him by name."

"Peter Boyd," the son grinds out, "has been dead for thirteen years. He was a police officer, a former colleague of my mother's. He was one of two people killed trying to get a group of young police cadets to safety during the terrorist… outrage… at Hendon."

The daughter looks up. She also has blue eyes, but hers are heavily shadowed with loss. "He was shot twice in the back and died at the scene. Our mother never really recovered from the shock."

The son puts an arm around his sister's shoulder. Protective. Defensive. He growls, "If this is someone's idea of a sick joke…"

The nurse immediately adopts a bland expression. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

She's been doing this job for a long time. She is not at all superstitious but she knows that sometimes strange things can happen in the very last hours of life. Things which are not always readily explainable. But it isn't her place to attempt to say as much to recently-bereaved relatives who are clearly struggling with their pain. Besides, the nurse knows nothing of the eerie ancient notion of the psychopomp and even if she did, she would certainly doubt that such a thing could possibly exist alongside the sleek modern buildings and all-encompassing technology of twenty-first century London.

After a moment of silence she asks, "Would you like me to show you the way to the Chapel of Rest…?"

_- the end -_


End file.
